


In The Dark, In The Pain, On The Run

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam's wall breaks, Dean decides they need some time out of the life. They rent a rundown house in a small town, and during the renovations, everything changes between them. Sam/Dean curtain!fic, veers off canon mid S6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark, In The Pain, On The Run

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about almost three years ago for a challenge that never happened, and I... Well. I re-read it earlier last year to determine if I wanted to get it up to speed and maybe use it for another challenge, but, the thing is, I would write some things differently now, take more time with the plot, but I'm so ~over Sam!whump and especially his hell fallout at this point that I didn't feel like rewriting this. At all. So I posted it friends-locked on LJ, to get it off my back. But now I'm closing up shop on there, at least as far as my writing journal is concerned, and I'm cleaning it out a bit and exporting stuff in case I decide to lock it down or get rid of it altogether at some point. Plus, IDK, I just want my stuff on here. All of my stuff. So, I know it's not perfect, I know it has its faults and weaknesses, but it's as done as it's ever going to get. 
> 
> Beta'd by rocketgirl2 , etacanis, and partially akintay. Thanks to all three of you! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Let The Cables Sleep" by Bush.

Mornings aren't Dean's favorite thing about the day, at whichever time they might take place for him. It makes no difference whether he wakes up at 4:00 in the morning after barely two hours of fitful sleep or around noon after eight hours of full-on-stupor – not that the latter happens much anymore. He always feels like crap.

And waking up with his nose buried deep in a particularly rank motel bedspread, fully clothed and in a position that may have been comfortable for all of five minutes before causing killer neck pain, both his arms numb because he somehow managed to bury them underneath his chest together, that's not making it any more fun. 

Dean yawns and inhales, unfortunately _before_ he remembers to heave himself up enough to get a safe distance between him and the aforementioned bedspread, groans, and turns just enough to look for Sam in the bed across the room. 

Which is empty. His eyes fly to the alarm clock: it's 2:25 a. m., not a time to be out and about. But it's been a very long time since either of their sleep schedules was anywhere in the neighborhood of normal, so he's not too worried. He pushes himself up into a sitting position to see more of the room. Still no sign of his brother. 

"Sam?" 

His voice echoes in the empty space, and that combined with the lack of an answer makes a shiver run down Dean's spine. 

Sam's gone. Not here. At a time where there simply isn't any place else to be other than _here_ , in the hotel room. Plenty of times, Dean's woken up to Sam at the laptop or to him clattering about in the bathroom or even sitting on his bed reading or sharpening knifes or whatever the fuck else, but that's the point: usually, if he can't sleep, Sam still stays in sight, or at least in earshot of Dean. They both do. Unspoken agreement, and one Dean's really rather fond of: they don't let the other wake up to an unexpectedly empty bed. 

Because, this? Reminds him of too many nights when Sam was either dead and gone or out and about doing soulless things, and neither of that is an experience Dean _wants_ to be reminded of. He knows it's the same for Sam, since the summer after Dean's deal came due. They've both spent months with the other dead, it's a memory and not just an unsubstantial fear, so this isn't something they put each other through with no reason anymore. 

Dean gets up, turns the lights on, checks the bathroom to be sure and gives the room a quick and futile look-over in case Sam left a note. Then he grabs his keys and runs outside. 

He makes it halfway across the parking lot before he sees Sam's silhouette in this week's scrapheap, slumped against the passenger door. The faint light of the street lamps from behind makes him stand out like he's part of a shadow play, something surreal and dream-like. Dean shakes his head to clear it of that thought, stomp on the fear that's still settled in the pit of his stomach and that should be gone now that he's laid eyes on Sam. 

But it's not gone. Dean's reasonably sure that nothing would take Sam just to deposit him in the car, but Sam running off on his own doesn't make sense either. That's something Dean would do, yeah, if they had a fight: go and hide in the car, even if it's not the Impala. Sam wouldn't do that, though, and they didn't even have a fight either of them might want to run away from so the fact that he's out here is unsettling all on its own. 

The door doesn't creak when he opens the door, something Dean's still not used to even though they put the Impala in storage weeks ago, and so Dean uses his voice to alert Sam to his presence in case he's fallen asleep. "Hey, Sam. What are you doing out here?"

Sam turns slowly, as if he's stuck in thick mud, and stares at Dean with wide, red-rimmed eyes. "He doesn't like cars. Your cars, specifically. Least of all the Impala, but this one does too."

Well, fuck. 

Doesn't have to be as bad as it looks on first glance, Dean tells himself. "Did you have a dream? About him?" he tries, and Sam's lips curve up in a sad smile. 

"Not a dream. Was awake. Been awake all night, and then I remembered that he doesn't like 'em." He reaches out, paws at Dean's shoulder. "I think it's because of Stull. Or just because they're yours. Or both."

"But you haven't seen him in weeks. Have you?"

Sam shrugs. "I see him all the time, but I don't listen." 

That's quite the revelation, and something Dean should've known, should've seen somehow, but now's not the time to get hung up on it. He closes his eyes briefly, mutters a curse to himself. "So, what changed? Why were you listening tonight?" 

Instead of a reply, Sam laughs, a humorless sound that turns Dean's stomach. "It's the smell, he says. They reek of you." 

Actual answers don't seem to be on the plate tonight, so Dean decides to settle for comfort and postpone inquiries to a later point. He also doesn't fail to notice how the devil can't be that repelled by Dean's cars or his smell if he's still around to point the latter out, but he doesn't have to wonder where exactly the thing's supposed to be. Sam looks out the window and huffs at nothing Dean can see, so Dean's got a pretty solid theory about the whereabouts of his hallucination. 

He reaches for the radio, turns it on to some odd country station that he couldn't care less for. The wailing of some female singer would make his eyes bleed any other time, have him fiddle around until he finds a better station but this is about background noise, something to ground Sam, so it doesn't matter. He reaches to the backseat, where he left his jacket earlier, grabs it and balls it up into a make-shift pillow. 

That wins him Sam's attention. He tears his eyes away from the devil outside of the car, stares at Dean instead with an incredulous, confused look on his face."What are you doing?" 

"If you're going to spend the night in the car, I will too." 

"Why?"

Dean does his best to conjure up a reassuring smile. "Cause I ain't gonna leave you alone out here with Satan poking at you through the window. That's why." 

Sam's gaze flies to where the devil must be, then back to Dean. "You don't have to." 

"No, but I'm gonna," says Dean and makes himself comfortable in the seat, jacket stuffed underneath his head, facing Sam. 

Sam doesn't say anything else, but he settles lower into his seat and keeps his eyes on Dean, not on the imaginary nightmare outside. 

They sit there in silence until Sam falls asleep around sunrise. He flails awake after roundabout half an hour, but he's got it together a lot better when he does, even cracks a joke when Dean complains about neck pain as he unfolds himself from that sorry excuse for a car. 

 

***

 

Dean lets the topic rest in favor of getting them coffee and doughnuts. He's reluctant to leave Sam alone, but Sam says he's fine – yeah, of course – and that he'll take a shower, which isn't an activity Dean usually hangs around for anyway. 

Still, he speeds a bit on his way into town, has to bite his lips so he doesn't snap at the clerk who takes his sweet time bagging up the donuts. Panic looms at the back of his mind the whole drive back, and when he turns the key to their room roundabout fifteen minutes later his heart has leapt into his throat. It stays there until he catches sight of Sam, sitting on the bed and rubbing his hair dry with a towel. He looks up at Dean, expression lit up by relief at the sight of him. 

And as much as Dean hates to wipe that look off Sam's face, he's got to know what exactly is going on here. "So, last night. Anything you feel like explaining, Sammy?" 

Sure enough, Sam's gaze drops to the floor. "I, uh. He's back, full-force, and I can't shut him out." 

"So suddenly? Why?" 

Sam shakes his head. "Dean." 

"No, forget it. Don't 'Dean' me, not on this one. Out with it, _tell me_." 

With a sigh, Sam lets the towel drop onto the bed next to him and peeks at Dean from under out-of-control bangs. "He helped me, when Jeffrey had you."

"Come again?"

Sam drops his eyes, shakes the hair out of his face. "He helped me find you, and now I can't put him back into the box. Because I talked to him, acknowledged him, I dunno. Something like that." 

And in some weird way, that makes sense. "You responded to him, and now you can't shut him back out?" 

"Yeah. I tried everything that helped before, pressed my finger into the scar until it turned numb, went for a run, but no dice. I think, by the time I remembered the car thing, I was pretty out of it? Sorry for that." He stands, picks the towel up and walks over to the bathroom to hang it up to dry. 

Dean follows him. "Is he here, like, right now?" 

Sam nods, back still turned. _Shit._

"We'll figure out way to get rid of him. _Sam._ We will, okay?" 

"Yeah, sure," says Sam and snorts, and Dean's kind of glad he can't see his brother's expression right about now. 

 

***

 

For a couple of days, Sam manages. He's twitchy and on edge, literally flinches at the sight of his own shadow, and he sleeps fitfully, but he's trying hard for normal and Dean can appreciate that. After all, he's been where Sam is. Kind of. Not like he's ever had the devil on his shoulder, but he was in hell and then he was out and he knows one never really gets back, not all the way. 

So he doesn't say a word when Sam excuses himself to the bathroom that one time at lunch and comes back a little green around the gills. He doesn't say anything either when he sees that Sam has scratched at the scar in his palm until he got it bloody again. But when he nearly jumps down the throat of their current ghost's widow, Dean decides that a talk is in order. 

Mrs. Hallmark is a platinum blonde in her forties, one of those women who thinks they can hide their age under layers of paint. They're sitting at her coffee table during the interview, and she pulls out a pocket mirror to check her make-up; Dean has yet to figure out which of them she's into, but she's thrown beady eyes around from the moment they introduced themselves. As she holds the mirror up, the light hits it the wrong way and blinds Sam for a second. He springs to his feet, pulls out a switchblade knife he hides in his shoe, and Dean barely gets to him in time to intervene before he actually attacks Mrs. Hallmark. He excuses them by telling her Sam's seen someone suspicious in the window and they're going to check it out and let her know, thanks very much for taking the time for the interview, and then he ushers Sam out of the house. 

Sam's still shaky when they walk down the pathway leading from the front door to the street, but tries to cover it up. He babbles on about the case as if nothing much happened, theorizes about the reasons Jonathan B. Hallmark would have to haunt these parts even though he lead a simple, boring life and died in his sleep. "I mean, she came off kinda shady, didn't she? Wouldn't put it past her to, like, put sleeping pills in his after-work beer or something." 

Not really the topic on the forefront of Dean's mind now, if he's honest. "Possible. And did _he_ tell you that she's shady? That why you went at her in there?" 

"She, uh. No. There was a reflection, and for a second I thought – " 

After throwing a look back to Mrs. Hallmark's window to make sure they're out of her sight, Dean grabs for Sam's arm and squeezes it. A shudder goes through Sam at the touch, but Dean doesn't let up, searches for his gaze and holds it until he's sure that Sam's fully in the here and now. "I think I have a pretty good idea of what you thought. Been there, done that. But, dude, what happened in there, that's too much. If you can't keep yourself in check – and that's no accusation, don't get me wrong; I think you're doin' great, all things considered – then we gotta drop this case. Lay low for a while, just you and me." 

"Are you serious?" Sam's eyebrows fly up to meet his hairline, both at once, and he scrunches his face up; it'd look funny if the situation wasn't so serious. "You think I'm a danger to people we come in contact with, is that it?"

"I think that, right now, you can't tell whether _they're_ a danger to _you_ or not, because of what... Because of him. Maybe it'll be easier to get a handle on this if you don't have to be around strangers for a while."

Sam shakes Dean's hand off, takes a step back and rubs at the place where Dean's fingers dug in. He's still glaring, and Dean can tell he did take it as criticizing, as an accusation, but he shrugs his shoulders. "Fine. If it makes you feel better, we'll _lay low_." 

 

***

 

The cabin is close by, half a day's drive, and they make it there before nightfall. It was the obvious choice, the only place they've got left to fall back to, but as he steps over the threshold Dean's not so sure it's the place they should be right now. They've hardly spent any time here since the weeks after Bobby died, and Dean can still feel his and Rufus' presence in every corner, every book on the table, everything that's been theirs and is now his and Sam's. 

If Sam feels the same, that can't be helpful. But they have no other place to go, and so he doesn't bring it up. 

They get their stuff from the car and unpack in silence. If Dean thinks back on it, Sam's hardly spoken at all since they left the widow's house. He answered when asked a question, exchanged a few words with the motel clerk when they checked out, but he hasn't said a word to Dean that he didn't absolutely have to. 

Which, yeah. Sam's pissed, Dean got that memo. He'll come around. 

 

***

 

Of all the things Sam's good at, quietly chafing at someone isn't one of them. He can only go so long until he needs to air the reason of his anger to the person who caused it. 

Dean knows that. He's that person quite often. 

This time, it explodes out of him after Dean comes back with boxes of Chinese takeout he drove half an hour to pick up. Dean hasn't even shut the door behind himself when Sam blurts out, "I'm not crazy!" 

Because he's got so much experience with Sam's explosions, Dean takes the time to safely deposit the boxes onto the table before he replies. "No one's saying you are. You're going through a hard time, is all. We'll fix it." 

Sam eyes him, probably to figure out whether Dean means that or is just trying to placate him. He's sitting on the bed, fully clothed, because god forbid he'd allow himself to get some rest. "I don't want you to handle me with kid gloves, like some headcase who might go mental any second."

"I won't, I promise." 

"Hm," Sam says and puts on a listless, half-done bitchface, not at all convinced. "And just so you know, I wouldn't have hurt her."

"Sam, I know. I'm not saying you're a threat to society, I'm just trying to make this easier for you." 

There's a long pause, and Dean can almost watch Sam cool down bit by bit. It's a conscious effort, he's pretty sure Sam _wants_ to be angry, because for him that's always been the easiest way to deal with a problem. But eventually he inhales, exhales, and sits up straighter. "So we'll stay here for a while, yeah?" 

"That's the plan,” Dean answers, then holds his hands up. “Unless you don't wanna? Up to you, man." 

Sam hesitates. He picks up a loose thread from the blanket he's sitting on, plays with it and studies it intently for a little while before he looks up and nods. "No, it's okay. Let's do that."

 

***

 

Almost a week passes, and Sam indeed seems to do better. He still throws glances to an invisible devil far too often for Dean's liking, and the exhausted look that stems from too little sleep doesn't go away, but he seems calmer, more in control. 

Until he isn't anymore. 

They've decided to try and get some order into the collection of copies and second-edition books that Bobby had in storage to pass the time while they stay here. Some of it had already been in the cabin, some more in the load that Sheriff Mills brought, and it's a mess with no trace of an order. 

Or, well. None that anyone other than Bobby could wrap his head around. 

They work in silence: Sam sorts and Dean stoves away as he's told, and it takes Dean a little while to notice that Sam's eyes are pinned to a spot in the corner of the room almost constantly, when he's not handing Dean a stack of books with instructions on where to put them. He doesn't even try to hide it. 

"Sam, what's up?" 

He doesn't react. Dean has to say his name again, louder this time, to get his attention. 

"Huh?" Slowly, Sam turns his head to look at Dean. 

"What is it, what's he doing?" 

Sam's answer comes with a delay, as if he has to work through it first. "He's saying, he, uh. They're all in hell. Because they helped us. During the apocalypse. Heaven wouldn't let them through."

Guilt is a traditional Winchester trait, and Sam just raised the bar. "Come on, that's nonsense."

"Is it? What makes you so sure?" The expression on Sam's face remains tight and worried; he doesn't seem to believe that Dean can talk him out of this one. 

Doesn't mean Dean won't try. "We met Ash upstairs, right? He's in heaven, driving the angels up the wall." 

"Ash died before the apocalypse even started." Sam gives a little shake of his head. Whether it's a rejection of Dean's argument or a denial aimed at his hallucination, Dean doesn't know. 

"And Pamela? What about Pamela?" 

Sam stares back at him, tilts his head as listens in to the voice inside it. "He can't explain Pamela. Now he's singing at me, which he usually does when he's out of arguments or ideas." 

Not something Dean needed to know, but Sam seems to relax a bit after that, and it's better than an imaginary Lucifer planting more guilt in his brother's head. He holds his hand out, gestures for Sam to hand him more books. “See? Next time you need someone to outsmart the devil, just holler.” 

“Now you just sound full of yourself,” Sam says with a small, weary smile, but he hands down another stack of books and rolls his eyes when Dean puts on his most obnoxious grin in reply. 

 

***

 

Dean gets woken by a yell just before dawn. It's already getting light outside; the room is bathed in the kind of half-dark that occurs shortly after sundown or just before sunrise, and it reflects on the wooden walls of the cabin, paints them with patterns. But he doesn't really have time to appreciate the scene, because there it is again: 

"Ohh, fucking _shut up_!"

It takes Dean a minute to come awake fully, and he blinks at Sam, who's currently pacing through the room, breathing heavily and muttering under his breath. "Hey." 

"Dean," says Sam, and stops. "I woke you. Sorry." 

Dean doesn't like the way Sam's gaze darts to the other bed every few seconds, and that right there is probably the reason why Sam's not in it, hasn't even tried to catch a few hours of shut-eye; as far as he's concerned, his bed is occupied. 

"It's okay, not like I insist on eight hours of beauty sleep. What's he doing?" Another thing Dean doesn't like is how they both keep referring to a figment of Sam's imagination as 'he', but he figures it's easier on Sam than saying 'the devil' or 'Lucifer' all the time. 

Sam's face contorts into a grimace; he clearly doesn't want to talk about this. "He's recounting stories he's been told. From hell."

"About what?" 

Finally, Sam stills. He pretty much freezes, looks down at his feet and kneads the palm of his left hand with his right. "Uh. By demons. From when you... Fuck, Dean." 

That needs a moment to sink in and be processed, before it dawns on Dean. "Oh, come on. Sam. Seriously, no. How would he even know that? He doesn't like demons all that much, why would he chat with them, about my time down under, of all things?"

"But he knows stuff. About us. You and me."

"Of course he does. He knows everything _you_ know, dumbo, because he's your hallucination." 

Sam shakes his head. "That's not what I mean. He... Ah, forget it." 

And, yeah, Dean's happy to do that. Anything for a change in topic. "You know what? I'm going to make us breakfast." 

"Now? It's 4:30 in the morning."

"Yeah, and I'm up and won't go back to sleep. Gonna get hungry soon anyway, so why not get ahead?" What Dean doesn't say is that there's a bottle under the sink that screams his name right about now. They both have their own ways of getting through the day, and the fact that Sam's are failing him doesn't exactly make Dean need his less. 

 

***

 

The night after that, Dean jolts awake to Sam shouting his name from the bathroom. There's no pause between it, a constant string of "DeanDeanDean", and he's on his feet and in the bathroom in a flash. 

Sam's sitting on the floor, cross-legged, side of his face pressed to the cold tiles and eyes squeezed shut. There are long, bloody gashes along his forearms, a blood-stained pocket knife lies next to him. 

Dean's heart misses a beat at the sight. "Sam," he breathes out, and it sounds too loud in the quiet room. 

At the sound of his voice, Sam slowly opens his eyes. "He's still here. It hurts, I made it hurt so much, but it won't work."

Dean sinks down next to Sam, gathers him in. "We'll find a way to make him go away. I promise." 

Sam clutches at his arms, buries his face in Deans chest, and eventually, he starts to sob. It shouldn't feel like a relief, but it's such a normal, understandable, human reaction that Dean can't help but feeling a little lighter with it. He strokes a hand down Sam's back and holds on, and for a while it feels like he's actually capable of fixing this. 

 

***

 

The second day in a row, they see the sun go up after a night during which Sam hardly slept, and it starts to show. He's pale, dark circles under his eyes, and he keeps nicking off just to jerk awake again instantly. 

Which is why Dean has a very, very hard time to keep his voice at moderate volume when Sam suggests they should go looking for a gig. 

"Are you serious? You're in no shape to be hunting!" He glares at Sam, who responds with his best lost-little-puppy-impersonation. That, right there, is the face that could've charmed myriads of colleges girls out of their panties in an instant, if only Sam had used it right, and it's also the one that always made Dean give him the last chocolate bar when they were kids. 

"I need to work. I'm going out of my mind here, with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and listen to the literal devil on my shoulder." Sam scoots closer to the edge of his bed, stares at Dean intently. He's practically begging him to agree, but this isn't about sweets or first showers, and Dean doesn't plan on giving in. 

"No. Abso-fucking-lutely no way. You can hardly keep your eyes open; how do you think aiming or fighting is going to go over when your concentration is all shot to hell?" 

"You have to understand. I know you do.” Sam pauses, inhales, and Dean already knows he's not going to like what he'll say next. “You hauled us from job to job after you came back to distract yourself, remember?" 

Dean does remember, and the thought that Sam knows what that's like now, too, makes his chest constrict and ache as if he's been punched. "Low blow, man. And that's not the same." 

"How is it not? Because back then it was you, and now it's me?" 

That's part of it, but Dean's sure as shit not going to admit that. "I didn't have the devil singing at me to keep me from sleep. And I didn't cut my forearms into ribbons to make him go away." 

"So your speech about pain being different up here and how it helps to remember that fact hasn't been based on personal experience?" It has been, actually, but Dean chooses not to answer, shots a death-glare in his brother's direction instead, and Sam sighs. "I'm not gonna do that again. I won't. That's part of the reason why I want go get back on the job, to have something to do. Distraction." 

"Am I talking to a brick wall? No sleep, no monster-hunting." 

Sam's face takes on that look again, the one he has when he tries to decide whether it's worth it to piss Dean off in order to make his point. "Okay, explain to me how your drinking on the job is any less of a risk than me being sleep-deprived? Last time I checked, the effects were similar." 

Of course Sam would check that. He probably already knew it before either became a problem, geek that he is. And of course he would chose this moment to use Dean's drinking against him. 

"I'm not... It's no issue when we hunt. You know that." 

"Yeah, by pure dumb luck. You know what, Dean? If you want us both sharp and in proper shape before we tackle the next job, how about you use the time off to quit drinking?" Sam has given up on trying to look loveable and dig at Dean's big-brother-instincts, now he's getting angry, all raised eyebrows and wide eyes. 

And hey, Dean can do angry too. He just doesn't need as many words for it. "Fuck you." 

"Okay then. I'll get us a gig. Something easy." 

Dean wants to argue this further, or just put his foot down and decide this for the both of them, but the times when Sam would have allowed him to do that are over. "See what you find, then we'll talk 'bout it again." 

 

***

 

It takes Sam all of an hour to dig something up that he deems fitting. He lets out a satisfied little noise, pulls the screen of the laptop back, turns it, and presents his findings to Dean. "Easy salt-and-burn, and close by. We could do that with our eyes closed and one arm tied behind our backs." 

"Another ghost hunt? Yeah, because that worked out so well the last time."

Sam sits up straighter and rattles his arguments down like he's reading a list he already prepared in his head: "This one's clear-cut, long-since haunted house with a violent death to tie it back to. It appeared on the radar because a young family moved in after it was unoccupied for a while, and they got attacked. You can do all the talking, if that'd make you feel better about unleashing me onto the general public?" 

"Jeez, Sam, that's not what this is about and you know it."

As if Dean didn't say anything, Sam passes right over his concern and moves on to the next item on his little list. "It's only 20 miles away from here, too. We wouldn't have to spend the night at a motel, can come back here afterwards." 

Dean's still not convinced that this is a good idea, but he also knows how stubborn Sam can be. If it won't be this hunt, it will be another one, in a few days. Might as well speed things up and bite the bullet now. "Fine, whatever. But if you want me to go anywhere with you, you better see that you can scrape together a grand total of at least four hours of sleep tonight." 

"Three." 

"What is this, an auction? Okay, three and you'll try and nap in the car." 

 

***

 

The hunt does go quite well: Dean's talk with the shell-shocked family confirms the ghost theory, the late first house owner is easily identified, did indeed die a violent death in the house, and half an hour in the county archive gives Dean specifics on his burial place. 

It's all smooth sailing until they reach the part Sam was so sure they could pull off in their sleep – haha – and the ghost catches up with the fact that it's about to go up in flames. 

Dean's pouring salt over the bones when it attacks him. It barges into him full force, knocks the wind out of his lungs and his legs out from under him. He lets go of the bag as he falls, manages to reach out and grab into it from where he lies, and throws it into the ghost's face. The thing flickers, then disappears. 

Of course it won't be gone for long, but that shouldn't be a problem. Sam's standing on the other side of the grave with a lighter in his hand and he's supposed to set the bones on fire any second now. 

Only, he makes no move to do so. He's standing there, stares at the tiny flame, and keeps looking over his shoulder. His lips are moving, like he's mumbling something, and Dean doesn't have the time to figure out what's happening before the ghost materializes again. It goes for his throat, and his shout for help ends up as a croak. "Sam!"

That's enough to get Sam out of his daze, though. He looks up, eyes going huge in horror, and yells Dean's name in turn. The only thing that gets him is the ghost's attention. It swirls over to him, reaches out, and Sam takes a step back, drops the lighter in the process; it lands in the wet grass. 

The ghost's hand close around Sam's throat, and Dean desperately fumbles in his pocket for his own lighter. He finds and lights it, throws it into the grave, and the thing vanishes in a blaze. 

Dean lets himself fall back onto the grass, breathing heavily, then inhales and stands with a wince, watches as Sam's hands come up to rub at this throat and he looks from the grave to Dean and back. "I'm sorry. Dean. I'm sorry! You okay?"

Sam's voice is somewhat panicked but strong, and he's not croaking from the suffocation. It was brief anyway, with a little luck he won't even have bruises in the morning. Dean refrains from walking over there and getting his hands on him, making sure he's fine by touch. He himself's got a few bruises, but nothing he hasn't dealt with before. 

”Yeah, still kickin',” Dean replies, bends down for the bag. “Lets pack up and get outta here." 

 

***

 

The entire car ride, Sam's apologizing. It's unnecessary, Dean's not pissed. He's worried. But he lets Sam talk at him anyway and holds his tongue until they're safely back in the cabin. 

The door has barely fallen into the lock behind them when Sam launches into it again. "Hey, come on, don't give me the silent treatment. I told you I'm sorry." 

"Yeah, roundabout fifty-six times in a row. But it's not your fault." 

Sam stares at him, disbelieving. "No?" 

"No. You didn't ask for any of this. Not the devil, not hell, not Lucifer-vision all around the clock. But we can't go on like this. You almost got us both _killed_ tonight."

"I know," Sam replies. He sounds abashed, and no, that's not the point Dean's trying to get across here. 

He closes the distance between them, reaches out and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder."Hey, no, that's not an accusation. What I'm trying to say is that we need to find some way to deal with this. Going on like before and hoping this will solve itself with time isn't going to work. We can't hunt like this, what just happened proved that. We can't stay here and simply wait it out either, that's not helping." 

Sam blinks, then his gaze flickers to Dean’s hand on him and rests there, like a welcome excuse not to look at Deans face when he admits defeat, gives in. "So, what are we gonna do?" 

"I don't know, not right now. But I promised you we'll figure this out, and we will."

"Okay." Sam sinks down onto one of the beds, runs a hand through his hair and yawns. He leans back, stretches out, but jolts upright again seconds later. His eyes fix on a point by the door, and Dean can see how much of an effort it is for Sam to tear his gaze away and keep himself in check. 

Whatever they're going to do, it needs to happen soon. 

 

***

 

Sam holds on, as well as he can. If it weren't for the stares and glares and low, mumbled curses that he can't quite hide, Dean could almost forget the devil's even there. 

It's such a weird concept, knowing that an afterimage of the real, actual devil sits in the room with them and whispers to his brother. Sometimes Dean wonders what it's been like. Not the torture, he's got no interest in the details of that and he knows a fair bit about how that feels, but before. Sam as vessel, Sam with Lucifer in his head for real, in control of his body while Sam himself is in the backseat, killing their friends with Sam's own to hands. They’ve never talked about it, and he wouldn't ask, but he thinks about it. 

But even with his brave face firmly in place, Dean can't ignore the fact that Sam phases out in front of him, and at no slow speed. The little brother he knows withers away, becomes this pale, always-tired copy of him. It's a little like Sam-without-a-soul, only worse, because Sam still feels it all. 

Dean rakes his brain for a way to help him. The next couple of days, he makes his way through every book in Bobby's replacement library that might offer a solution. He digs out some of the shadier spell books he acquired while Sam was in the cage. Eventually, when the supernatural doesn't promise any help, he turns to a more human approach: trauma survivor websites and help forums. 

Sam showed him some after Dean's own stint in hell, and back then he didn't spare them a glance. How could the same psycho-doc tricks that help abused children, battered wives, or victims of a crime be of any use for the aftereffects of _decades in hell_? Dean never thought he'd see the day, but now he gets Sam's point. The human brain has certain ways to deal with horrible experiences, and that doesn't change no matter how big the scale is. 

He sits in front of the laptop for nights on end, drives into town to loan out some books, and while things like therapy and talking it out with a professional fall flat in this case, there are some ground rules that Dean runs into on every turn. Things like a safe, steady, stress-free environment, a daily routine and tasks that don't have anything to do with the 'experience'; those are more realistic goals to achieve, even for them. 

But not here. 

What they need is a place they can stay for a while that's not associated with hunting, that's off the grid and easy to protect. What they need, Dean decides, is a house. 

The thought is not as alien as it should be. After all, Dad sometimes had them settled in one place for months when they were young, and he spent a year in one and the same house with Lisa and Ben. Sam lived in Stanford for fours years. They'll just have to get used to it again, and it's not like it will be for good. 

 

***

 

Once the decision has been made, Dean doesn't waste any time on how to proceed.

He calls Frank while Sam takes one of his fifteen-minute-naps. It still feels strange, asking someone for help who isn't Bobby, especially on something so huge. But wherever it is they're going to end up for the next few months, he's got to make it legit. Which means he needs money, and social security numbers for the both of them if he wants to have any hope at getting a job decent enough to support the two of them for a while. 

Frank starts bitching at him before Dean can get in a 'hello'. "You know what? Leads aren't going to magically appear whenever you call. If I find something, you'll be the first to know, until then leave me the fuck alone and let me wo – " 

"Cool it, Frank, I'm not calling about the Leviathans." 

That takes the wind out of Frank's sails pretty effectively. "Huh, unexpected. What _are_ you calling about?" 

"I wanted to, uh. Ask a favor." 

Frank snorts out a laugh. "And here I thought you actually called to, I don't know, ask how my day's been or something." 

"No need to get sarcastic, man." 

Dean's never been fond of begging people for help and some of that embarrassment must have bled into his voice, because Frank's tone has changed when he replies, "What is it?" 

The next part, Dean tries to rush through, get it all out as quickly as he can so it doesn't get caught in his throat. "Sam's not feelin' so hot. And it gets worse every day. We need to, I dunno, hole up somewhere for a while. Lay low, catch our breath." 

"Doesn't Bobby have that cabin? Can't you stay there for a week or three?" 

"Yeah, but it's not that kind of laying low I had in mind, and I'm not talkin' about a couple of weeks." 

"You want out of the job." Frank sounds honestly surprised. 

But that's not what Dean means, not exactly. "Not for good. I thought we could rent some dump, stay in one place for a few months, until he's better. That's all."

"And what do you want from me?" 

This _really_ starts to feel an awful lot like begging, and Dean scrubs a hand down his face before he answers. "We need, well. Some documents. And money, to get us started." 

"What makes you think I'd help you scrounge up cash?" 

"For one, it'd get me off your case regarding the big mouths for a while." Dean'd prefer to leave it at that, make this a joke. But he needs Frank's help on this, more than he's comfortable with admitting, so he decides to lay his cards on the table. "Look, you're right, it's not your problem. You don't have to help me. But... It's bad. I'm losing him. And I can't let that happen." 

Frank's silent long enough that Dean thinks he might've lost the connection, and then: "Okay. Come on over, and I'll see what I can do."

 

***

 

Sam shrugs at him when Dean tells him about the conversation with Frank. He's obviously unhappy with it, judging from the disdain in his expression, but doesn't say anything. They stare at each other, a battle of wills, and one Dean's bound to lose. Sam has always been better at this game, probably knows that Dean's going to be the one who has to break the silence as well as Dean does. "Hey, Sammy, come on. Say something. This isn't just my decision." 

That gets him a reaction; Sam snorts a humorless laugh. "It's not? Sounds damn final to me." 

"Hey, no. You can still opt out of it, I'm not going to force anything on you. I talked to him first 'cause I didn't wanna suggest something that doesn't pan out." 

"Hmm." Sam clearly doesn't buy that, but seems to willing to play this out for argument's sake. "And what'd be so different to staying here?" 

"It'd be ours. No history, no memories of old friends everywhere we turn, or of past hunts. Plus, this isn't exactly the safest place on earth; we kept a Leviathan in the cellar and fuck knows how many critters followed Rufus here in all the years he's had it." 

“So you just want to play house cause it'd be safer?” Sam pulls his lips up into an acrid imitation of a grin. “Good one.” 

“Come on, seriously. It _would_ be safer. That, and it might also... You know.”

There's no doubt Sam knows what Dean means by that, but he angles his head to the side and quirks his eyebrows anyway. “What, Dean?” 

“Help you. To have, uh. Some consistency?” He only realizes the last bit sounded an awful lot like a question after it's out. 

Sam jumps off the bed and takes a step towards Dean, downright sneering. “I don't need 'consistency'! What I need is for you to stop treating me like a headcase!” 

“Whoa, no. I'm not. I'm doing this because I want to help you,” Dean says, calmly as he can manage, and takes a step back. He's doesn't want this to turn into a shouting match. 

Breath coming out through flared nostrils, Sam glares at him. “Yeah, well. Don't.” 

“No.” Dean watches as Sam turns around, sits back down. He looks exhausted and resigned, too young and too old the same time. “Sam. Hey. There's no harm in trying, right?” 

“Whatever. Get us a house, don't, I don't care. Just leave me the fuck alone, okay?” He doesn't meet Dean's eyes. 

That's not quite the outcome Dean was hoping for, but it's permission, so he'll make do with it for now. He packs up their things before Sam can change his mind, and drives up to Frank's with a silent, sulky Sam in tow. 

Sam waits in the car while Dean's in the trailer to discuss the details; Dean did ask if he wanted to go in, but Sam answered by flipping him the bird, and glares at him some more when he comes out with a folder of documents and an not exactly unimpressive wad of cash. “We'll have to hang around for a couple of days. Social security numbers and work papers take a little longer, apparently.” 

“Motel, then?” 

“Yeah. Last one for a while. Seriously Sam, you can't tell me you'll miss paper-thin walls and stains on your bedspreads.” Dean digs out the brightest, most encouraging smile in his repertoire, hoping against hope it might spread. 

It doesn't. 

 

***

 

Dean spends the next few days on real estate websites. Back when he was with Lisa and had them move because of the djinns, Dean let her take care of choosing a house, and now that he looks one for all by himself he remembers why he stayed out of it. It's overwhelming. 

The year he worked in construction gave him decent knowledge about what to look out for in regards to structural condition and defects, but he doesn't know jack about anything else. He knows there's some kind of code that's common when describing a property, but he's got no idea what it all means. Prices, brokerages, legal stuff… it's all Chinese to him. He looks at houses for rent, too, because this is all just meant to be temporary, and it's way less paperwork. 

Sam no help. He's still somewhat pissed, and all Dean gets in reply to his questions about Sam's preferences or opinions are dismissive grunts. But even so, Dean doesn't stop trying. 

“Hey, Sammy, would you rather go someplace north, or somewhere sunny?” 

Sam sits on the bed with a book, something old and dusty from Bobby's library, propped up against the headboard and with his ankles crossed, slightly angled away from Dean. His whole posture is a clearly spelled out fuck-you, but he looks up from his book, shrugs his shoulders. 

“You're real helpful, you know that?” 

Another shrug, and Sam goes back to reading, so Dean keeps looking on his own. 

It takes a little while, but in the end, he manages to sniff out a couple of small houses that look to be in a decent condition and are still cheap enough. He prints all the ads he likes, spreads them out on the table, and waves Sam over. 

Sam rolls his eyes at him, as if he's annoyed that Dean didn't catch his drift yet and keeps trying to involve him in the house-picking process, but he gets up and strolls over. He stops a few steps away from the table, eying the papers like they're about to come to life and jump him in the face. 

“Pick one,” says Dean. 

“What?” Sam turns around, stares at Dean with his eyebrows raised. 

“Pick one. They'd all work, and I want you to decide. Which one's it gonna be?” 

It's obvious that Sam would rather stay mad and turn Dean's offer down. He hesitates, but his voice is calmer and less testy when he asks, “Really?” 

“Yeah, really. I meant it when I said that I don't want to force this on you. The least I can do is let you decide where we'll spend the next couple of months, right?” 

No answer, but Sam steps forward so he can examine the printouts. He picks one up, flicks through it, grabs the next, and Dean finds he's kind of excited. Since he went over them so many times, he knows which is what from just a glance, and he looks on as Sam singles out the houses in Miami, Iowa, Vermont and Wisconsin into a pile on top of the laptop's keyboard. 

When he's done, Sam gathers up the pile and holds them up to Dean. “One of those, I guess.” 

Dean doesn't take them. “Which one?” 

“I dunno, I kinda like them all.”

“One of them, Sam. Come on,” Dean bores on, and eventually Sam draws his arm back to give the print-outs another look. 

“Fine. The house in Washburn, then. We stayed in Port Wing when I was a teenager, for a couple of weeks. That's nearby, right? I remember the area, it was nice.” 

Washburn, Wisconsin, is a small city not far from Lake Superior, and the house is a one-story building a little off of the center. It's one of those that are put up for rent, not to be bought; a little older than most of the others, and in need of some work, but that Dean doesn't mind that. 

He calls the real estate agency the next morning, they get the okay within another day, pick up the last missing documents at Frank’s, and not forty-eight hours later they're on their way to Wisconsin. 

 

***

 

“Okay, so maybe it looked better in the pictures.” That's an understatement, and Dean knows it. The house isn't ramshackle, but it's long past its best days. The plain brown paint is peeled off in some places, the window- and doorframes are a little cracked, and the small garden holds more weeds than flowers. 

Sam, boy scout that he is, has the printout folded up in his jeans pocket along with the emails the agency wrote regarding the address and the contact data of the owner. He pulls it out, holds it up next to the house. “Maybe the photos are from the 80s?” 

“Ah, shut up. Gimme that.” Dean digs around in his own pockets until he finds his cell and dials the landlady's number. She picks up on the second ring and bellows a 'hello?' into the speaker. “Mrs. Bartholomy? We got your number from the real estate agency. They must've told you? We want to rent the house on Third Street.” 

The prospect of possible rent money in her near to immediate future doesn't improve Mrs. Bartholomy's mood any. “Ah. You already seen it?” 

“We're standing in front of it.” 

“Good. Y'all rent it as it is, if you want to do some work nobody'll stop you, but don't expect me to pay for shit.” 

Well, at least she's honest. And direct. Dean can appreciate that. “Should we come by? Talk things through before we – ” 

“No need,” Mrs. Bartholomy cuts in. “It's yours if you want it. Put the first rent payment into my mailbox, and I'll have the realtor give you the keys. So, do you want it?”

Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam, who gives a long-suffering sigh in response. “We're already here? Might as well stay.” 

“Okay, we'll take it.” He double-checks the address Mrs. Bartholomy gives him, and she hangs up before the goodbye. 

They deliver the money as Dean's been told, get a motel room for the night, and wait for the agency to call. 

 

***

 

The inside of the house isn't in a much better state than the outside – there is some old furniture scattered about, and the flooring needs replacement and the walls a fresh layer of paint – but there's nothing that can't be fixed with a little bit of work. It's bright and spacey, two big rooms in the front, and then a kitchen and a bathroom on the way to a smaller room in the back. 

Sam eyes it like the walls might come down on them any second. “So this is the 'safe place' you had in mind, huh?” 

“You lack imagination, is all.” Dean rolls his eyes.” Look beyond the junk and the dust and the old wallpaper, okay? And at least it'll give us something to do.” 

“Well,” Sam allows and grins teasingly. “I guess we've squatted in places much worse?”

Dean chooses to ignore the mockery in his tone and interpret that as approval. “That's the spirit. Which room do you want?”

“Let's see.” Sam's grin broadens, clearly pleased with himself in advance for the pass he's going to throw Dean next. “The one that's less likely to give me dust mites?” 

“And back to buzzkill. Sometimes I really just don't know what to do with you.” 

They decide that each of them will use one of the big rooms as their bedroom, and they'll figure out what to do with the remaining room when they're settled and done renovating their rooms. Furniture is going to be another issue, and they're going to need all those little things, too, like dishes and towels and … basically everything. But that's a problem for another day, Dean decides. He starts to carry the old junk out into the small, overgrown backyard, and after watching him for five or ten minutes, Sam wordlessly joins in. 

The starting money provided by Frank allows them to buy tools and material for the renovations that Dean's planning, and a couple pieces of furniture without having to sweat about it, but Dean doesn't want to use it for rent and monthly expenses. It'd last them for a while – now that they don't have to pony up for a down payment as they would have if they've bought a house – but that would put too strict a timetable on their stay. 

So Dean needs a job. He doesn't have many marketable skills, and those he has he doesn't have documentation of, so he aims low and eventually runs across the ad of a bar across town that's looking for help. He calls ahead, in case the job's already taken or they demand references he can't bring, and gets invited for an interview the next afternoon. 

Sam joins him for the interview, and the woman behind the counter – in her fifties, with short red hair and a dirty white towel in her hand – quirks an eyebrow as they enter. “Huh,” she says, eyes darting from Sam to Dean. 

Dean follows her gaze, and the assumption she makes about the two of them is clear. “No, hey, he's my – “

“I don't give a crap about what he is, or isn't,” she interrupts and waves a hand. “As long as you show up for work on time, don't bitch about overtime and don't drink from my stash, we'll get along just fine. I'd also ask you to not hit on costumers, but I see that might be a non-issue.” 

Something in the way she says that convinces Dean that her error might actually be a point in his favor, and so he doesn't set the record straight. He steps closer to Sam – who sucks in a breath like he’s having a hard time not bursting out into laughter – and smiles. “Okay. Glad it's not a problem for you.” 

She steps out from behind the counter, walks up to them and extends a hand. “I'm Martha. And if you want, you're hired. You get one day off, every other day your shift starts at five and runs for as long as I say. That okay with you?” 

Dean nods, they shake on it, and ten minutes later him and Sam are on their way home. As soon as they're in the car, Sam lets go of the laughing fit he so manfully suppressed in the bar. “Did your non-existent gay crush on me just get you a job?” 

“Shut it,” Dean grumbles, but he feels a smile tug at his lips without his permission. His eyes are glued to Sam, the way he laughs so freely, shaken by it and out of breath; it's been so long since either of them had a reason to do that. 

“Whatever. Maybe there's another one of your more redeeming qualities at play here, anyway,”  
Sam muses when he's got himself under control again, but Dean can see that he's still trying hard to not start cackling again and he knows Sam's not done yet. 

“Which would be...?” 

“Judging from the fact that she eyed you like a Christmas dinner the whole time we were in there, my guess would be that she wants some eye candy around during long night shifts in the bar. Chances are that's the real reason she hired you.” Sam barely gets the last sentence out before he doubles over into another fit. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean says and starts the car. 

 

***

 

The fact that he doesn't have to leave for work until late afternoon suits Dean just fine. It gives him more time to work one the house, and, more importantly, try to get Sam involved so he's got something to do during the hours he's alone. 

A week after they first moved in, he brings it up over coffee and pancakes. “Hey, Sam?”

Sam looks up from his plate, chews and swallows. “Yeah?” 

“Uh, you wanna help out around here? Help me with the renovations?”, Dean asks, aiming for casual. 

“Are you serious? You're not afraid I'll, like, put a nail through my hand or staple my arm to the wall because Lucifer said so?” Sam replies and shovels another forkful of pancake into his mouth. 

Dean wants to scream at the reminder of Lucifer; no matter how long this is going on, there's no way he's ever going to get used to it. He scowls. “Not funny.” 

Sam's reply is muffled by the food still in his mouth. “Wasn't meant to be.” 

“Okay, whatever. You in or not? Thought it'd give you something to pass them time with, and I could use a second pair of hands.” 

Sam takes the time to finish chewing, and as he waits for Sam's response, Dean finds he's suddenly nervous. But Sam just nods. “Sure, yeah.”

He doesn't know if it's going to work out, but at least Sam proves to be a quick learner. He's not as familiar with the work as Dean is, and he needs some time to adjust, learn how to use the tools and develop the right sense of proportion, but he's clever with his hands and after a week or two of token bitching, he seems to start enjoying it. 

 

***

 

The first few weeks, Dean doesn't know much about his brother's sleep schedule. They sleep in their respective rooms, and if getting used to the lack of breathing and snoring from the other side of the room bothers Sam as much as it bothers Dean, he doesn't say anything about it. Dean can tell by the persistent circles under Sam's eyes that he still doesn't sleep much, the near-constant flicker of Sam's eyes to glance at an invisible Lucifer doesn't lessen either, but Dean doesn't press the issue. As long as Sam sleeps some and doesn't hurt himself, it's his right to not talk about it if he doesn't want to. Dean's dying to know what's going on, how he's doing, if he's getting better, but he trusts Sam to tell him when he wants – or needs – to. It's hard; in fact it very nearly drives Dean insane, but he feels like Sam deserves as much for trying so hard to keep himself under control. 

One night, roundabout three weeks in, Dean hears noises in his bedroom. His brain is too trained on self-defense to suspect anything else than a threat, and so it happens that he nearly knifes Sam in the stomach. Lucky for both of them, Sam's reflexes haven't vanished completely yet and he grabs Dean's wrist in time. 

Now wide awake, Dean sits up and tugs the knife away again. “Man, what the fuck! Sorry. What are you doing here?” 

Sam looks both scared and exhausted, and also really embarrassed. “I thought that, uh, maybe I could sleep here? In your room? It's so much harder to ignore him when I don't know that you're right there, lying in the dark with me, and tonight.... I just can't, Dean.” 

“Hey, no problem.” There's an awkward moment when they presumably at the same time realize that this isn't a motel room and there's only one bed available, until Dean pulls back the covers and wiggles with the edge of them. “Whatever, hop in. Just stay on your side of the bed. And try not to kick me.” 

It's not like after killing and dying for each other sharing a bed is such an odd thing to do in the grand scheme of things, and anyway, it's not the first time. Until Sam declared he was too old to sleep in the same bed as Dean, they hadn’t known anything else. 

They sort out their positions after a while, and Dean falls Dean falls back asleep to the rhythm of Sam's breathing – still awake, he can tell, but not as freaked out as he was earlier. 

 

***

 

When Dean wakes, Sam's already gone. He pads into the kitchen, as messy and unfinished as the rest of the house, and pours himself a cup of coffee from the already half-empty pot in the machine. Sam's not there either, so he keeps wandering, and eventually finds him in the room in the back. 

Sam's busy stripping the old wallpaper from the walls, like they’ve already done everywhere else. They’d planned to do this room last, because they have no real idea what to do with it and the rooms they frequently use seemed more important, but it looks like Sam has changed his mind. He's so engrossed in his work, ear buds from a Walkman drowning out every sound, that Dean has to step in front of him to get noticed. 

“Hey,” Sam yells, surprised and maybe a little freaked, and pulls the headphones out of his ears. “You're up.”

“Obviously. I see you decided that this room's going to get its fair share of our attention, too?” 

Whatever drove Sam to get in here and go to work, it seems he it didn't prompt him to think things through to the point where he has to lay out his reason to Dean; he looks a little bit like a kid that's gotten caught as it plays with his parent's tools. “I thought that, uh, maybe, I could work on this one while you're at work. Or asleep. Or, you know, otherwise occupied. Take what you showed me already, and practice it here. If I screw up or make a mistake, it won't be at noticeable as in the main rooms or the kitchen, and you can fix it later, when we're done with everything else. Dunno. I just needed something to do, but if you think this is a bad idea we can wait as we said and I'll – “

“Woah, stop. It's okay, you don't have to explain yourself. If you want to work on this one on your own, you do that.” 

“Good, okay. Thanks.” Sam smiles and wipes his hands on his jeans. “What do you say, I go get a quick shower – that old glue shit itches like fuck when it gets a chance to dry – and we continue with the flooring in the kitchen?” 

 

***

 

They fall into a routine after that. Sam works in the small room while Dean's at work, or when he can't sleep, and he takes to sleeping in Dean's room – his bed – more often than not. Dean debates with himself whether or not he should suggest that they put Sam's bed in there too, make it 'their' bedroom and use the other one as some kind of living room, but he's not sure if Sam'd be comfortable with dragging things out in the open like that. If he wanted that, he'd suggest it himself. 

Some nights, Sam comes to visit Dean in the bar. He doesn't drink anything other than Coke or soda, he sits in the back so Dean doesn't get into trouble with Martha for chatting with his 'partner' while paying costumers have to wait longer, and after Dean's shift they go home together. 

The renovating goes slowly; they’d agreed they wouldn't spend too much money on it, and buy new materials whenever there's something left of Dean's paycheck once the bills have been paid. That isn't the case very often, but Dean's used to working on a small budget. He makes do. 

 

***

 

Something between the two of them starts to shift, too. Maybe it's the lack of adrenaline – or the downtime that allows them to focus on the other instead of on staying alive – but Sam looks at him differently. Quite often Dean catches Sam staring like he’s seeing him for the first time, with a sort of awe and fondness Dean's not quite sure he deserves.

The first time he notices it, they're at the bar. Sam arrives shortly after midnight, overtired once again and Dean guesses he's already tried to sleep but didn't succeed. He sits down in his usual corner booth and watches Dean as he wipes the bar, pulls the occasional beer or whiskey. It's a workday, business is slow, and Martha has left early, so Dean can afford to join Sam for a Coke when he brings over Sam's soda. Dean hasn’t exactly sobered up over the past few weeks; his alcohol consummation is still way south of healthy, but Martha's strict about drinking on the job. She's made it clear that if she ever catches Dean with a hard drink during his shift, he’s out, and they can't afford to have that happen.

So yeah, in the bar, Coke it is. He puts both their glasses on a plate and walks over to Sam's table. “Hey man, how's your evening been?” 

Sam makes a gesture, so-so, and scoots up further into the booth so Dean can sit down next to him. “Turns out Lucifer likes Jeopardy. Not sure if that's a testament to its quality or lack thereof.” 

“In your favor, I'm gonna assume he's the one who made you watch it in the first place.” 

Sam's expression warms, and he chuckles. “Yeah, if in doubt, blame the devil.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, sip from their drinks, until a couple of suit-wearing bank clerks come in and Dean's busy pouring all sorts of liquor while he half-listens to their drunken discussions about things like interest rates and portfolios. 

That's when he catches Sam's stare. It's different, more intense than usual, and feels like a living thing attached to Dean's back. When Dean looks back at him and smiles, rolls his eyes at his costumers conspiratorially, Sam drops his gaze and pretends to be lost in reading the menu he’s only just grabbed. 

 

***

 

Dean doesn't think about it much, the thing with the looks and how Sam tries to hide them, until one morning he wakes before Sam and it all starts to come together. 

His brother is curled against him – which isn't new, the order to stay on his side of the bed he gave Sam the first night didn't hold long – and Dean's reasonably sure that the thing pressing into the small of his back where it meets up with Sam's hip is a hard-on. Morning wood would be a plausible enough explanation for that, and it's what Dean's intends to blame this on. 

Then his name falls from Sam's lips on a groan as Dean shifts against him, and that bubble pops. 

Dean doesn't fall back asleep. He lies in bed – completely still and terrified to wake Sam – until Sam gets up, and for half an hour more after that. 

He doesn't bring it up later – 'Hey Sammy, did you have a wet dream about me?' isn't something you can just toss into a conversation, and really, Dean finds himself more worried about Sam's reaction when he finds out Dean _knows_ than he is about the fact himself. A tiny voice of reason in the back of Dean's head tries to convince him that he should be way more upset about the mere possibility that Sam might have some not-very-brotherly feelings about him, but in the light of everything else that happened to them the last few years Dean can't bring himself to freak out about it. They're too close to each other, love each other in ways that no one else would still regard as sane; that's no news. If Sam tipped over into wanting Dean, so what? It's far from being the worst thing Dean can imagine to happen. 

They've got bigger fish to fry; as soon as they managed to rid Sam of the devil in his mind and the accompanying insomnia, Dean'll start thinking about Sam's newfound preference for incest. 

 

***

 

Another one of those nights when Sam migrates into Dean's room, he jolts awake with a cry loud enough to rouse Dean along with him. His eyes are wide with fear; he blinks and stares at Dean, then flops down onto his back and groans. “Oh, fuck.” 

“Bad one?” 

“None of them are exactly good.”

Dean sits up and rubs at this eyes. “Do you, uhm, want to talk about it?” 

Turns out, Sam does. Dean knows from the plethora of websites and books he read that it's a good sign, that talking's supposed to help and in a lot of cases the ability to talk about it precedes the actual healing, but...he doesn't want to hear what Sam's Hell felt like. He doesn't _need_ to know what Hell feels like, he's got his own lively, vivid set of memories about that. 

But he does listen. They both lie in the dark and look at the ceiling as Sam talks about his particular dream that night, and many nights after that when Sam goes on and on about Michael and Adam and eventually about Lucifer. 

 

***

 

The last room that Dean officially declares finished is the kitchen. It takes them a couple hundred bucks, three months of work here and there, and a wait of two more months for a big enough paycheck that Dean can afford to buy the countertop he's set his mind on. Sam calls him nuts for that – the thing costs $150 a piece and there are some on sale for 10 percent of that – but it's shiny and sleek and black, with a silver finish on the sides, and something in that damn house ought to look a little like home. Their furniture is second-hand and mostly boring, beech or pine or the like, but this? A guy's got to express himself somehow. 

They almost finish it on a Wednesday afternoon, just before Dean leaves for work, and when he comes home that night he doesn't go to bed. He's had trouble sleeping lately, courtesy of Sam's detailed reports from down under, he'll be off work the following day and can catch up on sleep then: Plus, the fact that Sam's already in bed means it's one of the good nights; he doesn't need Dean there. 

So yeah, he goes straight into the kitchen. Everything's fitted already, the holes for sink and stove are sawed out, and all that's left to do is to seal everything with silicone, put the countertop on, fasten it in place and put on the borders. 

Around six in the morning, Sam pads into the room and makes his presences known by giving a little cough. It's not necessary; Dean heard him coming from halfway down the hallway. “There are times you're real good at subtle, Sammy, but three minutes after you woke isn't one of them.” 

“Haha,” Sam says and groans. “And yet, I'm awake enough to know you're not funny. You been in here all night?” 

“No. I spent one half of it at work, and _the other_ half in here.” 

Sam walks over to where Dean kneels, lets his fingers roam over the surface of the countertop. “Is this my cue to parrot all those insomnia-is-bad-for-you speeches back at you?” 

“Don't make one all-nighter into more of a drama than it is. I'm fine, I just wanted this done. Took us long enough.” 

The way Sam's eyebrows are still creased, mouth a tight line, leaves no doubt that he doesn't buy that, but he doesn't push. “And it is? Done, I mean.” 

“As soon as I got all of these” – Dean turns and points to the already-cut plastic borders that lie on the table next to him – “in place, yeah.” 

Sam leans against the table, reaches for the borders and picks one up, inspects it and puts it back. “Ah,” he says, and Dean could hear the gears that start to turn in his brother's head from a mile off. 

“Okay, spill. What's that freak brain of yours brewing?” 

“Nothing,” says Sam, a little too cheerful for it to be the truth, and saunters out of the room. “I'll leave you to it.” 

 

***

 

Later that day, Dean comes home from a run to the laundromat – some habits are hard to shake, and washing machines are expensive – to the smell of potato wedges and fried meat. 

When he enters the kitchen, Sam whirls around. “Hey! You're back early.” 

The place is a mess. Sam has the oven on, for the wedges, and only the pan and one more pot on the stove filled with what looks like vegetables of some sort, but he's managed to turn the kitchen into a battlefield of chopping boards, bowls, cooking utensils and discarded packaging anyway. Dean takes it all in, then looks at Sam. “What's this, World War Three?”

Sam grins, bright and happy and only a little embarrassed. “Hey, don't give me that. Could've been way worse. I originally planned on roast beef and a casserole, but after careful consideration I decided that's above my skill level.” 

“And this isn't?” Dean makes a gesture that encompasses the whole kitchen to underline his point, and Sam rolls his eyes theatrically. 

“Whatever happened to 'it's the effort that counts'?” 

“That rule doesn't apply to food.” 

Surprisingly, though, said food isn't bad at all. The scallops are just a little overcooked, the broccoli Sam boiled to go with it is a tad too tender, but otherwise it's great – especially for someone who usually limits his cooking attempts to pizza and omelets. 

They clean up together afterwards, laughing more than they have in months – or maybe years – while they throw away packaging, do the dishes and put them away, and in the midst of all of that Dean finds himself backed up to the counter with Sam standing right in front of him. He looks at him with another one of those stares that are part predatory and part downright worshiping, and leans in to press his mouth to Dean's. 

Sam jumps backwards a few steps almost in the same moment their lips touch, palm pressed to his mouth as if that would somehow undo it, take it back, and flees to his room before Dean gets his wits back together well enough to get out a single word. 

 

*** 

 

Exactly how upset Sam is about his slip-up becomes clear the following night. They've stayed out of each other's way the for the rest of the day; Sam presumably because he's embarrassed or ashamed or scared, and Dean because he never did manage to come up with the right things to say. He'd have to lie if he said he wasn't shocked, but he also didn't mind it as much as he should. 

Sam stays in his room come bedtime. He seems to fall asleep at some point, because a little while past midnight Dean hears him screaming and yelling in pain. 

Dean manages to stay in his own room and listen to it for all of two minutes, then he's out of bed and running across the hallway. When he enters the room, Sam's already awake and upright, breath coming in harsh gulps and eyes wide with terror. Dean sits down on the edge of his bed, waits for a cue from Sam as to what he can do to help. 

For a moment, Sam just stares at him, his pride at war with his fear and need to be comforted. The latter wins. “Can I... Uh, could you... _Dean_.” 

It's enough. Dean scoots up higher on the bed so he can lean onto the headboard and draws Sam in until his head rests on Dean's thigh. Sam comes willingly, but he doesn't cling, doesn't sob. He just lies there, eyes closed, pressed up as close as he can get, and eventually his breathing evens out. 

Dean stays up until the early hours of morning to watch over Sam's sleep. At the slightest sign of another nightmare, he smooths a hand down Sam’s back, bends down to murmur soothing nonsense into his ear, and every time, Sam quiets back into to regular sleep. 

They don't talk about it come morning. Not about the kiss, not about the state of their sleeping arrangements, but the night after that Sam turns up in Dean's bed shortly after he gets home from work. 

 

***

 

Sam comes out with the news while they're watching TV in his room on a Sunday afternoon. He says it quietly, almost in passing: “I wanna apply for a job tomorrow.” 

In fact, he says it casually enough that Dean almost doesn't hear it. “Wait, what?” 

“I said, I'm gonna apply for a job tomorrow. The local library is looking for help, part time, to sort their archives. It's temporary, but I figured it might be a good start to, you know, learn how to interact with people who aren't you again.” Sam rushes through the words, takes in a breath when he's done. 

Dean stares at him, stunned. “No fucking way.” 

“That's not your decision, it's mine. And I wanna do this.”

“The fuck it is! Who's gonna be the one to take care of you if you can't deal with it? Or if you slip and something happens? Huh? Who'd that be?” 

Sam stands, arms going up a little, elevated from his body, like he always does if he tries to get a point across and feels like his discussion partner – usually Dean – doesn't quite comprehend where he's coming from. “Look, I know you're worried. And I get that. You’ve got every reason to be. But I've been doing better lately. This, the house, the quiet routine of it, helps a lot. And now I wanna do this. Take another step towards getting our lives back, okay?” 

Dean's still not the least bit happy with that idea, but Sam's right: it's not really his decision. “Library archive today, interviewing witnesses without flipping your shit tomorrow?”

“Something like that. Plus, we could use a second income, right? Maybe we could save some of it up, re-stock the money Frank gave us, pay him back.” 

Dean can't hold back a smile at that. Sometimes, Sam's still so ridiculously, adorably innocent; after everything, it's refreshing to be reminded of that. “I'm pretty sure that was more something along the line of creative accounting or, I dunno, his hacking mojo than money from his personal stack.” 

“Then we'll save it up for ourselves. Not the point, anyway. I wanna do this, and I'd much rather do it with your support. Okay, Dean?” He looks at him with wide eyes, a bit like a kid that asks a parent for their signature on the permission slip for a school trip, and Dean's not capable of raining on his parade any further. 

“Fine, yeah. I'm with you on this. But be honest with me, okay? The first sign that it might be too much too early, that you can't handle it, I want you to tell me and back out, okay?” 

“Promise,” Sam says and nods in agreement. “And hey, no guarantees I get the job, right? Let's not worry too much until that's the case.” 

 

***

 

He does get the job. From the following week on, Sam leaves the house every day at noon and works in the library for three hours. It means he and Dean see each other a little less, but the working hours agree with Dean. Sam comes home before he's got to leave for his shift in the bar, so if something happens he's available. 

The first day, Dean eyes his cell phone the whole three hours, dreading a call, but there isn't one. Sam gets home, beaming with pride and accomplishment, and it's so contagious that Dean forgets his worries for a little while and teases Sam about books and being too nerdy to function, and does he have a colleague that wears glasses and her hair in a bun?

Dean's still anxious the next few days, but the more of them that pass without an incident or a hint that Sam's relapsing, the calmer he becomes. 

It's working out, taking Sam out of the life for a while, giving him an opportunity to catch his breath. Their time here will come to an end, and if some part of him's sad about that, Dean doesn't pay it any mind. Things could be good: Sam hasn't talked to the devil in weeks, they managed to steer past an incestuous incident without too big of a fallout, and what passes for normal in the their fucked-up lives is once again within reach. 

And yet, most days when Sam's just left for work and his shift is so far away that he can sober up some in the meantime, Dean finds himself eye to eye with a drink. He can't remember the first time he did it, which is probably a statement all on its own. He sits down at the kitchen table as soon as he's left alone in the too-quiet house, pours a glass, finishes it off in one long pull, pours another, until his world blurs at the edges. Not full-out wasted, just a comfortable buzz most days, enough to stop thinking about nothing in particular; definitely not about all the times he heard Sam scream, not about how that echoes all the other screams Dean bore witness to in a different setting – another reality, almost – or about the feel of Sam's lips briefly brushing his, how maybe he liked it or maybe he didn't. 

It takes Sam exactly two weeks to notice, or maybe that's how long he tolerates it without calling Dean out. 

“You're drunk,” he states one afternoon, before he's even out of his jacket. He looks sad and disappointed, but not pissed. 

Dean doesn't try to deny it. “Yup. And it's none of your business.” 

Sam purses his lips, balls his hands into fists by his sides but doesn't say anything else, and Dean feels like an ass. There's his little brother, who's spent the equivalent of several human lifetimes as an angry archangel's plaything, has said archangel whispering to him every step that he takes, and he tries to get over all that without a single drop or so much as a sleeping pill while Dean climbs into the bottle every chance he gets. 

He feels bad about it, but not enough to stop. 

 

***

 

Dean always thought that the alcohol helped to keep the dreams at bay; didn't just serve the purpose of putting him under every once in a while but also drowned the memories, but now he's not so sure. He can't quite figure out if he's drinking more because the nightmares have gotten worse again or if the nightmares are getting worse because he's drinking, and it's not a point worth dwelling on. 

No matter which way around it is, there's some sort of circle involved here and he couldn't stop if he wanted to. It's not an epiphany, he's known that for a while and it lost its punch. He takes a minute or two to feel sorry for himself anyway, right until his eyes fall to Sam's sleeping form on the other side of the bed. His chest rises and falls slowly, in a regular and steady rhythm, only occasionally sped up by whatever horror managed to creep into it. A hand smoothed down his temple or up his arm usually hauls him back if that happens. 

Sam hasn't have a nightmare bad enough to wake him or keep him from sleeping altogether for in days, and yet he climbs into Dean's bed every night. Sometimes he's still up when Dean comes home, and sometimes he wakes when Dean comes home and pads over from his room, half-awake and almost like he's sleepwalking. Dean kind of figures that the reasons for that are a lot more complex by now than they used to be when they first moved in.

Something has happened here. They’ve slowed down, refused to run any further, and it's like the basic chemistry between them has changed. Sam noticed it first, apparently, but Dean can't say he's immune to it. The way he aches to reach over and touch even when Sam's sleeping soundly, that's new. He's still resisting, but it's there, buzzes right under the surface and pulls at him. 

He closes his eyes, forcefully, and takes a deep breath. If there's one thing Dean Winchester is good at, it's suppression. This, too, is going to pass. They'll be back on the road soon, and won't have time anymore to examine this thing too closely. 

 

***

 

Sam, on the other hand, gives no indication that he might think about leaving. The opposite, really; a few days later, over coffee and scrambled eggs, he suggests they turn the spare room in the back into a library for Bobby's books. 

It'd be the perfect opportunity to clue Sam in to the fact that Dean has taken to counting the days until they can up and leave this place, but Dean doesn't have the heart. Not when Sam beams up at him like he does and blabbers on about shelves and registries and how he learned about all the different ways to organize them properly in the past few weeks at work. 

“One could argue you've were nerd enough to come up with such a system yourself even before you got that job,” Dean says. 

Sam's face scrunches up. “Yes. No. I mean, sure, I could've thought something up, but that's different. The system they use at work is brilliant. It's supported by a computer data bank, simple, easy to recreate on a smaller scale, but so effective. I could add cross-references and notes and – “ 

“Whoa, stop right there. Consider me convinced. If you wanna do that, knock yourself out. Just, please, _stop talkin'_ about it. You're giving me a headache.” He smooths his palm down the bridge of his nose for emphasis and Sam rolls his eyes, all long-suffering little brother. 

“Fine. Doesn't save you from the upcoming shopping trip, though.” 

“Shopping trip?” 

“We'll need shelves and a filing cabinet, for starters.” 

Dean groans. “That's so going coming out of your paycheck, not mine, I hope that's clear.” 

Either it was originally the plan or Sam doesn't mind anyway, because the beam is back. “Sure thing,” he affirms. “We gonna go now, or what?” 

They buy a cheap, simple registry and a few wooden panels for Dean to turn into shelves – Sam eyes the pre-made ones longingly and for a while there Dean's pretty sure he'll bring up the countertop to make his point, but in the end he agrees that Dean knows what he's doing and it won't make that much of a difference if they go for do-it-yourself. They gather a few tools and other materials, too, and Dean spends the afternoon measuring the room and cutting the panels to length. 

The following weekend, Dean takes off from work, four days to make it a long one, and they rent a van to drive to Montana. Sam has the dithers all the way up, talks about the books and all the things he wants to do with the data bank, how useful it could be, and Dean can't keep a fond smile off his face. 

It's been a long time since he's seen that side of Sam, geeking out and smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world. 

They arrive at the cabin sometime around noon on Saturday, and to Dean it looks like a memory from a long-forgotten past come to life. Even more so than the last time they came here, he's instantly aware that this place doesn't belong to them. The only reason it ever felt anything like home was Bobby, who only had it for a short time, inherited it from another hunter that fought beside them and died. 

Dean shudders. The hairs on his neck rise, but there’s no cold spot; just plain old unease in a place that feels haunted for reasons that have nothing to do with ghosts. “We should get rid of this place,” he says. 

Sam inclines his head and eyes him, as if he's not quite sure Dean means that. “Really? Sell it?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” 

Dean can't think of a way to put this into words that doesn't sound stupid, but he's put the topic on the table, so he has to follow that up. If he doesn't do it now, Sam will worry and prod and it'll become more of an issue than it actually is. “Because, can't you feel it? Death clings to this dump like old dirt.” 

Judging from Sam's shrug, that's not the answer he expected. “Hm. We can call up someone when he get home.” 

_Home._ Chances are it's just a figure of speech, during all their years on the road they've referred to motel rooms they didn't stay in longer than a day and couldn't even remember the name of as 'home'. But something about the way Sam says it makes it sound more real, gives it more impact. Dean swallows. “Yep. Let's get the books loaded into the van and hit it.” 

The drive back is a lot quieter than the way up. 

For a week or two, Sam's barely to be seen. It seems like he spends every spare minute in their makeshift library, sorting books, cataloging, and shelving them. Dean keeps out of it for a few days before he gets bored – alone in his room with nothing but shitty daytime TV to keep him company – and tags along. 

Sam's in his own world, completely absorbed in his task, but as long as it's a world where the devil's not around, Dean’s happy to work alongside him in silence. 

 

***

 

Ever since Hell, Dean's dreams have rarely been fun, but the worst parts of many nightmares are the moments just before he jolts awake, when it finally becomes so bad, so much, that his subconscious pulls the plug and releases him back into the waking world. It's a mechanism that doesn't work all that well for Dean, his threshold for terror way too high to be any real benefit to his sanity, and sometimes craps out on him altogether. 

This time, he wakes to Sam's hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and the faint memory of Sam yelling his name. Instinct takes over before Dean's brain is all the way back online, and he asks, breathless, “Sam, you okay?” 

Sam takes his hand off Dean's shoulder, lets it fall to the mattress and stares at him with wide eyes. “Am I okay? Jesus, Dean. You were screaming loud enough to wake the old fart two houses over, faulty hearing aid notwithstanding.” 

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, not quite sure what he's supposed to respond to that. His pulse is still going a mile a minute, the squalls and wailing that always float through his dreams like an undercurrent still echoing through his mind. He buries his face in his pillow to avoid Sam's gaze, afraid that if Sam gets a good look into his eyes, he might see what Dean dreamt about – what he used to _do_ back then – reflected in them. 

When he first came back, Dean was ashamed; he felt guilty and sick with himself. But it's nothing compared to how he sometimes feels now, his brother's suffering somehow accentuating the fact that for a while, in hell, Dean was the one who dealt out pain. It may be irrational – top apprentice or not, Alastair's school of horrors was very different to the things Sam told him about the cage, Lucifer's games and manipulations to go along with the physical torment – but at the bottom of it... torturer is torturer. 

Sam reaches out and touches his back briefly, but draws back immediately, like he's not sure he's allowed. “You've got nothing to be sorry for.” 

Dean elevates his head out of his pillow just enough to snort a laugh. “I'll be the judge of that.” 

Once more, Sam's hand comes down on Dean's shoulder, and he squeezes it. “Hey, come on. Look at me.” 

“No.” 

“Fine.” Sam stops squeezing, but doesn't draw back, and his palm feels too hot through the thin layer of cotton Dean's wearing. “Then listen. I couldn't wrap my head around it after you got back, Dean, I had no fucking idea, but I get it now, and – “

“You get jack shit.” 

“Actually, I think I'm the only other person alive who could understand how you feel.”

Finally, Dean turns his face around to Sam, does his best to glare him down. “Oh, you really don't.”

Sam doesn't waver. He looks back at him, disturbingly calm. “Explain it to me.” 

“The fuck I will, this isn't a goddamn therapy session.”

“It helped me, when you listened.” 

“That's different.” 

“Why? What, I deserve your help but you don't want mine?” 

Yes, and no, and Dean's rapidly getting annoyed with this conversation. He doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want Sam to know any of the details, all he wants is for Sam to _shut up_ , so he flips over, violently, to show Sam his back. “Go to sleep, Sam, and leave me alone.” 

Of course, Sam doesn't. He puts a hand on Dean's waist from behind, inches closer. “You don't have to talk, if you don't want to. Maybe you will, one day, maybe I missed that window a few years ago. It's okay. But please, please know that you... _None_ of what happened down there was your fault. You don't, in fact, have anything to be sorry for. Dammit, if I had the chance? I would've given in, too. Maybe way sooner than you did.” 

“ _Sam_.” 

Dean closes his eyes like it'll shut him out, tries to move away, but Sam doesn't let him. He grips Dean’s waist harder to keep him in place, leans his forehead to Dean's shoulder blades. “Shh. Don't. Let me.” 

Dean obeys; he couldn't say why, what makes him give up, but he lets out a breath and stops fighting. Once he lets himself relax, it's oddly comforting to have Sam near right now, to feel him pressed up close; he melts into it almost against his will. Sam seems to sense that; he keeps still at first, ready to draw back if Dean demands it, but when Dean doesn't protest any more he slots his chin to Dean's shoulder, next to his face, and begins to smooth his hand up and down Dean's flank. 

And right then and there, something inside of Dean snaps. As he lies there, wrapped up in Sam and pressed up tight, an entirely different set of memories makes its way to the surface and consumes him faster than he's able to stuff it back down: Sam's lips ghosting against his; Sam's body against his in a way similar to this, but with the added extra of his brother's boner digging into Dean’s flesh, and all of a sudden he _wants_. Maybe he did all along, maybe the feeling is brought on by the situation and the closeness and an unexpected wave of gratitude that after everything, Sam's still _there_.

He says Sam's name again and takes hold of his hand, guides it away from his waist and under his t-shirt. Sam goes with it until he touches skin, but then he freezes and makes a fist. “Woah, hey. What are you doing?” 

“Don't try and tell me you don't wanna.” 

Sam swallows; Dean can feel the motion of it against his skin. “Guess I didn't leave any doubt about that,” he admits, but continues to tug his hand away.

That stops when Dean shifts and turns, enough to meet Sam for a kiss. Sam goes limp for a second before he kisses back ferociously, spreads his fingers out on Dean's stomach and lets them wander further up. He finds a nipple, twists it, and Dean gasps. 

“Hey, not a chick,” he protests, and Sam reacts instantly by changing direction. 

Instead of up, his hand now goes _down_. He breaks the kiss in favor of a better angle, dips his hands beneath the waistband of Dean's boxers and Dean leans into him in anticipation of a hand on his cock, but that doesn't happen. Sam hesitates again. He presses his palm to the skin low on Dean's stomach and leaves it there. 

Dean places his own hand on top of Sam's, strokes across it with his thumb. “What is it, Sam? Something wrong?” 

“No,” Sam says. “Nothing wrong. I just, uh, didn't think this would happen. That I could have this.”

“Neither did I”, Dean admits. “But lets just... I dunno, _let_ it happen?” 

“Okay,” Sam replies, a little breathy. His hand takes its journey up again, slowly enough to drive Dean halfway out of his mind before anything’s even happens. When the touch comes, Sam's fingers on the head of his dick, ginger and exploring, Dean sucks in a breath. Sam seems to take that as encouragement, thumbs the head before he wraps his whole hand around the length of it and starts to jerk. It's awkward at first, Sam's touch almost cautious, testing, and Dean guesses that this is the first time Sam's had a dick in his hand that wasn't his. He can relate: this is unfamiliar ground for him too. 

He presses back into Sam's body, moves his hips against Sam's growing hard-on, and Sam groans in response. The movements of his hand synch up to it, he finds a rhythm, gives more pressure as he jacks Dean's cock, and fuck, _yeah_. Dean lets out a groan, begins to pull on Sam's boxers. He wants skin on skin, the last layers of clothing gone, and _now_. 

But for that to happen, Sam needs to let go. “Hey,” Dean says, “wait.” Sam stops but doesn't let go, and it takes some more pulling on his t-shirt and boxers until he get what Dean wants. He skids back and sits up to strip them off, but when Dean follows suit and moves to do the same, Sam takes a hold of his wrist. “No. I wanna.” 

Dean swallows a joke about being unwrapped like a birthday present and holds his arms away from his body to give Sam better access, stretches them out obediently when Sam pushes his shirt off over his head. He makes Dean lie down on his back with his boxers still on, crawls between his spread legs and just sits there for a moment. 

Being stared at is something Dean doesn't particularly enjoy; the center of attention has always been his least favorite place, but he lets Sam look at his leisure anyway. This is new for both of them, and if Sam wants to take a moment to stop and stare, revel in it, then Dean's going to let him. He doesn't know how much time has passed, seconds or minutes or an eternity, when Sam finally leans forward to hook his fingers into the waistband of Dean's boxers and pulls them down, past his hips and down to mid-thigh. He leaves them there, hand reaching out to touch Dean's cock again, wander lower and cup his sac, and Dean can’t help but throw his head back and moan when Sam rolls his balls in his palm. He expects Sam's hand to venture even further south, but it never does. Instead, he climbs over Dean's left leg and pulls his boxers all the way down and off. 

Dean rolls back onto his side so they’re facing each other, and remembers that Sam's not the only one allowed to touch here. His hand wanders between their bodies, past Sam's not exactly unimpressive abs – Dean knew how Sam looks, but _feeling_ it is different thing entirely. He could develop a thing for that, firm muscle under smooth skin, but when his eyes follow the path his hand took, they fall to Sam's cock, straining up from his belly and leaking clear precome at the tip, and _fuck yes_ , that's what Dean's ought to be touching. 

Sam follows his gaze, rolls his hips so his dick bobs. “Come on, yeah, Dean,” he demands, and Dean wraps his hand around it and strokes. 

The noise Sam makes in reaction to that his not quite moan and not really a whimper, something in between, and it's unlike anything Dean ever heard. Women don't make sounds like that, not so low and growly, and he's never paid attention to the noises he makes himself; it's new and different and _amazing_. He tries to establish a steady rhythm, varied pressure on the upstroke and the downstroke as he likes it himself, but then Sam takes his hand back to Dean's own cock and it's all shot to hell. They keep that up for a while, frantic and inelegant and needy on both counts, until Sam draws back. 

“Turn around,” he says, and Dean does without thinking. They're in the same position as in the beginning, now, and Sam presses himself to Dean's back, shifts, and Dean doesn't quite know what Sam's playing at until he feels Sam's dick ride up between the cheeks of his ass. Sam pulls his hips back a little, reaches between them to direct the head to rub against the space behind Dean's balls. He does that up for a minute or two before he reaches around Dean's body to jerk his cock, all the while thrusting his own dick through the cleft of Dean's ass cheeks, and like that, Sam comes. Dean can feel it, hot and wet on his skin, and the heady, salty smell of it fills the air immediately. He should probably find that gross, spunk smeared between them, but it only turns him on more. His hand wraps around his cock on top of Sam's, guides him into a harder rhythm, and it isn't long until Dean’s coming as well, spurts all over their fingers. 

 

***

 

Dean wakes the next morning with Sam's arm slung around his middle, dried come on his stomach and his ass, and a lump in his throat. 

For a moment, he can hardly breathe. Sam's body – his naked body – is still pressed to Dean's own, and Dean's acutely aware of every place their skin touches. They had sex last night. Well, not _sex_ -sex, but close enough – not something they can walk past and never look back to, forget it ever happened, bury it far out of sight. And what's worse still is that _Dean_ initiated it. He's the older one, the strong one, the one to steer them past trouble, and he took this thing that Sam somehow started and dragged it to the next level. 

Which was sex. _With his brother._

He's still one wrong inhale away from hyperventilating when Sam stirs, yawns extensively and stretches his free arm out over his head. He smiles when his eyes fall on Dean. “Hey,” he says. “Good morning.” 

Dean's out of bed like a shot. He mumbles a “Good morning” back and barely stomps down on the urge to cover his lower regions with his hands. 

Sam blinks at him, irritated. “What's wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Dean lies. “Wanna take a shower, is all.” He manages a grin, pulls a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt out of his drawer and flees into the bathroom. He lets the almost scorching water pour onto his back and tries not to think. 

If he thinks this through, he'll fuck it up. Thinking will lead him to “wrong” or “forbidden” and that's not what stole his breath. Dean doesn't give a fuck about either of those things. What confuses him so much is that it didn't _feel_ wrong. Still doesn't. The opposite, few things in his life ever felt so right. 

To say that scares him would be an understatement. 

Dean closes his eyes to the steam that fills the room and makes his eyes water, leans back so the still-cold tile gives him a counterpoint to the hot water and air around him. He thinks of Dad, and how he'd twist and turn in his non-existent grave if he knew about this; about Bobby and Mom and Ellen and Jo and Rufus, and how he could never look any of them in the eye again if they knew about this. But they don't; there's nobody left to care outside of him and Sam. No one will have to know. 

So yeah, Dean doesn't think. He makes the single most selfish decision of his life, gets out of the shower, towels himself down perfunctorily and goes to blow his brother. 

Sam's so surprised he almost flails himself off the bed when Dean all but storms back into the room, and kneels down on the end of the bed, but he stills when Dean draws a hand down his inner thigh. He grins, wide and relieved and happy, and lets his legs fall open to give Dean better access. Dean doesn't remember that Sam hasn’t showered until his lips close around the head of Sam’s cock and he licks at it, and Sam's face is the epitome of confusion when Dean jumps of the bed and disappears _again_ , but his features relax when Dean re-emerges with a wash cloth and a sheepish grin. He wipes Sam down and goes to work. It's likely not the most spectacular blow job in history – Dean's never given head before, makes Sam hiss a few times because he doesn't know how to keep his teeth out of the affair yet – but Sam comes within minutes all the same. 

Afterwards, when Dean leans back up and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, Sam sits up as well. His expression turns serious, inquiring. “You want this, right?” 

“Did I just leave the impression that I don't?” 

Sam looks away. “No. Just. Earlier, you were freaked out, and I want to make sure that you're not... Dean. Don't do this just because you think it's what I want.” 

That comes out of the left field, but it probably makes sense from where Sam's standing; they're fucked in the head when it comes to each other, and this, and what happened last night, only proves that. “I promise that's not what this is. I'm not, like, surrendering myself so you can be happy.” 

It takes a moment, but then Sam reaches out and snakes an arm around Dean's neck, to pull him back down and into a long, lazy kiss. 

 

***

 

Roundabout eight months after they first moved in, they receive a letter from a lawyer in town. Mrs. Bartholomy died, her nephew – who inherited the place – wants to sell it, and he's giving Sam and Dean the option to buy it before he offers it to anyone else. 

They open the letter in the kitchen over breakfast. Sam reads it first, then hands it to Dean, stares at him expectantly. 

Dean doesn't say anything. He wants to, races through possible answers: Yes, no, make a quip about it, have a serious conversation about money and fake identities and the fact that the prospect of staying in one place for _the rest of their lives_ makes something inside of him feel warm and content while his stomach knots up with panic at the same time? Thing is, Dean doesn't know what he wants. They haven't talked about it, not in so many words, and while he assumes that Sam would want to stay, he's not sure about that either. 

So he just sits there, stares at the letter to avoid Sam's gaze, until Sam pushes his chair back and wordlessly leaves the room. 

 

***

 

The rest of the day, they don't talk to each other much, and very pointedly not about the issue at hand. Dean leaves for work an hour early, and that combined with the grouch that most be oozing off him – he doesn't even attempt to hide his mood – seems to make Martha suspicious. 

“Why the long face?” 

Dean rolls up his sleeves and pulls her to the side. She's doing the dishes; he knows how much she hates that, doesn't mind taking over. “We've been offered a chance to buy the house.” 

“And that's a bad thing?” She takes a towel to dry and polish the glasses he hands her.

“We just never... It's was always supposed to be temporary. We never talked about the possibility that we might, well, stay. For good.” 

Martha looks at him with an expression that borders on pitiful. “You damn fool.” 

“What?” 

She stops polishing, holds up her hands with the towel still in her grip. “Oh no, I ain't gonna get mixed up in this one. You're a smart boy, you'll figure it out.” 

And that's what he spends the better part of the evening doing. He's distracted, forgets an order here or to add lime to a drink there, but Martha picks up his slack with a sympathetic smile and a wink. 

By the time he gets home, he knows what he wants to do. 

 

***

 

He finds Sam out on the porch. It's 2:30 in the morning, dark out, and Dean knows Sam's been waiting for him here all night the same way he's sure Sam knew that Dean would use his time at work to think things over. It's part of what they are, _who_ they are, to know those things about each other, sometimes even before the other realizes it himself. 

Dean sits down next to him, hands in his lap and carefully avoiding Sam's eyes. “I want to stay. Only if you do too, of course.” 

Sam turns, and Dean can feel the weight of his gaze on him. “I do.” He pauses, hesitant. “What about, you know, the job? Hunting. I didn't think you'd give it up just like that.” 

“We don't have to give it up altogether, right? No one's gonna keep us from taking a job here and there. We can keep in contact with some people, be on the ready if something big happens. Frank's still got our number, and eyes on the Big Mouths.”

“True,” Sam says, toneless and wary. He doesn't believe Dean means this, not yet, that much is obvious. 

“But the more I thought about it tonight, the more I realized that... I don't know. As much as I'll miss hunting and the road and all that, I'd miss this more. Us, this place. What we have now.” 

Sam looks away, but Dean can still see him smile from that angle. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously. I mean, it doesn't matter so much where we are and what we do, does it? As long as we're alive and together the rest is just framework. And, truth to be told, I've been tired of it all even before we came here. I kept going because I thought it was what you wanted, what we had to do.” 

“Funny you'd say that, 'cause I thought the same about you.”

“You're shitting me.” 

Sam throws his head back and laughs. “Nope. So you're telling me that we both kept going because we thought that's what the other wanted?”

Dean grins at him. “Well, that, and the world kept ending on us.” 

“Man, no offense, but our communication skills suck,” Sam says, and then he leans backwards to look up the front of the house. “You know what? Maybe we should paint the outside of the house next. If it's ours, we gotta take good care of it.” 

“And the garden. We should like, buy a lawnmower and everything, right?” A thought occurs to him, or more of a mental image, and Dean puts a hand on Sam's forearm, pats it. “We can go shopping for flowers, and you can pick up little daisies and daffodils and plant them. With gloves on and all.” 

Sam scowls. “You're an ass. I can't believe I just agreed to buy property with you,” he complains, but it doesn't hold; the grin is back within seconds.


End file.
